


Stabbed

by AppleCrumble1



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Smug Bull, Snarky Lavellan, Very Mild Blood and Gore, blink and you miss it Lavellan/Bull, really just a footnote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 18:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleCrumble1/pseuds/AppleCrumble1
Summary: Lavellan gets stabbed. He keeps it to himself. Bull outlines why that is fucking stupid.





	Stabbed

**Author's Note:**

> I think my Lavy is channelling Fenris' energy... I'm okay with this.

The templar blade pierced through leather, skin, and muscle, stopping just short of bone. Pain exploded from the area, yet Lavellan made nary a sound. He swung both daggers forward, slitting the man’s throat and kicking away from him backward into a summersault. Still standing, still silent.

It was not the first time he had been stabbed.

That had been years ago. He’d barely turned fourteen and made the mistake of setting out on a hunt alone. It was difficult to find others willing to accompany him, unpopular as he was amongst the clan. The august ram he tracked and killed wound up being the target of hunters from another clan moving through the area. Slightly older and more numerous than him, they demanded he relinquish his kill to them.

Lavellan refused and told them he’d be happy to relinquish an arrow or two up their respective backsides instead.

For a child of little more than skin and bones at the time, he fought reasonably well. But they outnumbered him, and were not opposed to fighting dirty. One broke his arm and another stabbed him with his own dagger. They took the ram carcass and left him for dead on the forest floor.

Whenever the elders had spoken of the Old Gods or the old ways or what it truly meant to be Elvhen, Lavellan had neither the interest nor faith to spare. But talk of how to fight, how to survive, how to use the forest and its denizens as your allies, he listened and he learned. Had Lavellan left his survival to the work of Mythal, or awaited rescue from others of his clan, he’d have died in a pool of his own blood. Instead  _he_ took control. He crawled through mud and grass, cobbled together whatever herbs he could to patch himself up, and kept moving.

Lavellan got back to his clan’s camp a day later, filthy and weak and starving. But alive. When he told the Keeper of the hunters who had attacked him,  _he_ was the one admonished for going off alone, for not treating the situation with patience, for not  _thinking_ or showing respect for his elders. And when he bit back, he was swiftly reminded of his already precarious place in the clan.

There were several things Lavellan took from that experience. Getting stabbed fucking hurt: avoid at all costs. Only a fool let themselves depend on others. And next time, he’d skip the threats altogether. Despite earning his share of cuts and bruises over the years since that first experience, it was how he’d eventually gotten so good at fighting, dodging, and patching himself up when he didn’t dodge fast enough.

But Lavellan had never fought templars. Humans, certainly, but never templars. Even if they were rogue, they fought better than any bandit or slaver he’d ever encountered. And bad as a Dalish knife had hurt, a templar blade was far worse.

He fought back a grimace while sheathing his daggers. The battle was done, the templar encampment had been cleared. Now they just had to deal with the rebel mages; an endeavour they all agreed could wait until morning. It would be dusk soon and none of them relished the idea of fighting a force of apostates in the dark. 

They retired to the Redcliffe Farm camp for the evening.

Lavellan took to his tent without a word, ignoring the tempting aroma of whatever was boiling over the campfire. He needed to see to his wound.

The leather and cloth around the area was already matted with blood. Lavellan shucked his coat to one side and pulled the overshirt off over his head with a hiss. He knelt and set his daggers down in front of him, tilting the blades just so to catch a reflection of himself in the steel. The wound didn’t look too bad. Thankfully he’d disengaged from the attack quick enough to avoid the sword doing much wriggling about.

Lavellan retrieved his own improvised “healer” kit, stuck a rolled up old handkerchief in his mouth to keep silent, then set to work.

It was never pleasant cleaning and stitching an injury without any kind of numbing agent. But they were difficult to happen upon, and extortionately expensive when purchased from an apothecary; Lavellan preferred to save them for the really bad injuries. Sweat was rolling down his face and blood splattered his breeches by the time he was done treating the wound. His entire right side felt as if it were on fire.

Nothing a little ale couldn’t fix.

He cleaned the tent up as best he could and pulled on a fresh shirt and trousers, collecting his daggers before stepping back outside. The sky was painted black with a dappling of stars. He went down to the stream for a quick freshen up; the cool water and chill in the air felt  _amazing_ against his overheated skin.  

Lavellan took a seat by the fire and tossed in a few pieces of wood. Then tossed back the contents of his hip flask. It was some kind of concoction he’d won in a game of five-finger-fillet from one of the dwarves back at Haven. What it lacked in taste, it more than made up for in effect. Another few mouthfuls and Lavellan would forget he even  _had_ an arm.

“Finally done patching yourself up?”

Lavellan flinched. Then scowled, annoyed with himself. “Mind your own damn business, Bull.”

The massive qunari snorted, circling the fire before settling down opposite him. He was also carrying a flask... or rather, a small barrel of his own. Lavellan spared a flick of a glance at his face before looking elsewhere.

“Can I give you a bit of friendly advice, Lavellan?”

“Oh,  _please_ do.”

Bull smirked. “This whole me-against-the-world attitude you’ve got going is cute and all. But in the long run it’s gonna end up getting you or someone else killed.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“The others might not have noticed, but don’t think it slipped past me. You took a bad hit today and didn’t say anything to anyone. You might be used to just watching your own back, but now you’ve got yourself a team. People who depend on you. People who  _you_ can depend on. Either you learn what that means  _fast,_ or you’ll end up fucking this whole thing up before it even gets started.”

Lavellan glared across the fire at him. “Are you calling me a liability?”

“ _You’re_ not. Your attitude is.” Bull shrugged. “Nothing wrong with being self-sufficient, and in a solo situation being able to patch yourself up is a damn good skill. But you a qualified healer, Lavellan?”

“No,” he growled. “But I’m not a dumbass. I  _know_ how to stitch up a damn-..”

“Let’s say the blade was poisoned,” Bull blithely continued, pausing only to take a swig from his drink. “Or the damage was worse than you thought. Or you wound up doing more harm than good. Tomorrow, we four find ourselves facing off against a stronghold of rebel mages. You pass out mid-fight. Cassandra panics and runs over to protect you from being finished off. She’s distracted and gets injured. Now there’s just me and Solas. Solas tries to keep both you  _and_ Cassandra from being killed. Meanwhile I’m trying to keep  _him_ from being killed or knocked out. The mages know we’re scrambling. They know one strong push is all it would take to finish us off. Think they’ll hesitate?”  

Lavellan quietly fumed. Infuriated mainly because… well, he  _knew_ Bull was right. He wasn’t going to say that aloud though. Fucker’s head was big enough already. Instead of responding he elected to drain another mouthful of his flask’s contents.

Apparently satisfied enough with that, the qunari tipped back whatever remained of his own drink and took it as his que to retire for the night. “Like it or not, you’re not on your own anymore. Deal with it, kiddo.”

“Go sit on a-... hey!” He ducked forward to get away when a large hand decided to ruffle his hair on its way past. “Fuck you.”

The curse had less vitriol than he’d have liked and Lavellan huffed to himself, running a hand through his shaggy mop of dark hair. Best to ignore the weird feeling which ballooned in his gut from the contact. The awareness of just how easily his head had fit into the qunari’s massive hand. The fact that he had not  _totally_ hated the brief touch.

_Fucking over-analysing Tal Vashoth dickbag…_

Hangover be damned, Lavellan drained the rest of his flask in a single hard swig. The shoulder pain at least was  _far_ gone from his mind.

Until morning, of course.

Dawn broke and greeted Lavellan with a veritable menagerie of pain. Not least of all was the persistent ache emanating from his self-dressed wound. He told himself it was fine. He’d fought through worse and came out in one piece. But when he emerged from his tent to squint against the daylight, something inside him clicked. It was when Cassandra wordlessly handed him a wooden bowl of leftovers from the previous night. His stomach rumbled at the scent and Lavellan realised with a start that he’d forgotten to eat. Cassandra had remembered  _for_ him.

He took a seat and twisted the bowl in his hands, suddenly awkward.

“Um… Solas?”

The mage was sipping at a steaming cup of  _something_ while his eyes remained fixed to the pages of a book. “Yes?”

“I… took a templar blade to the shoulder yesterday. I tried to patch it up myself, but thought... maybe you should have a look at it too?”

There was a moment of silence before the other elf cleared his throat in a tight cough. “Of course. Let me get some supplies.”

“Is there a particular reason we’re only hearing of this now?” Cassandra’s terse voice cut in.

Lavellan  _almost_ squirmed. Almost. The fact that he knew Bull was watching with what had to be a punchably-smug smile was what kept him in check.

“I guess I’m not used to asking for help. Being in a team is… weird. I’m working on getting better at it.” His face twisted into a pained expression, all but forcing the final word out, “Sorry.”

Solas appeared at his side and Lavellan shrugged off his shirt. “Speaking as someone who is also unaccustomed to working with people,” the mage began, opening his own pouch of  _proper_ healer supplies. “There seems to be a certain give and take needed. If not trust in those around you on a personal level, a trust that they at the very least wish to survive the day as much as you.”

“Of that there can be no doubt,” Cassandra dryly put in. Then to Lavellan she shot a blink-and-you-miss-it smile. “Though I respect your resilience. I didn’t hear a peep from you at all after the battle, and  _that_ is quite the cut.”

Despite hating the conversation, Lavellan couldn’t stop a grin from forming at her words. It was impossible to remain surly in the face of a compliment from tough-as-dragonbone Cassandra. “Heh. I’ve had far wor-... OWSHITFUCKowow _owww_...”

And there went that short-lived sliver of respect. The high-pitched shriek was bad enough. But the whine which followed.... Lavellan knew there could be no recovery.

While Cassandra at least had the decency to muffle her laugher beneath a hand, Bull practically hit the ground with the force of his howls. The fucker. Lavellan cast a withering look to Solas.

The other elf appeared stoic as ever but there was an undeniable glint to the evil bastard’s eyes. “Apologies. But as there is a chance the blade may have been poisoned, I will need to reopen and cleanse the wound before stitching it back up.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Remember, Lavellan.  _Trust_.”

His eye twitched.

Bull managed to compose himself just enough to belt out, “And make sure to bring that  _steely resilience_ with you to the apostates today, eh?”

Lavellan was going to smother that qunari in his sleep.


End file.
